Break Me To Love You

Chapter #3 {Do people change?}

I make it through AP Calculus by the skin of my teeth.

Mr. Patterson calls on me twice, and both times I have to ask him to repeat the question because I wasn't listening. I was too busy replaying the moment in the alcove, the heat of Zeke's body against mine, the way his voice went rough when he said ‘tomorrow’.

The way I almost let him kiss me.

By the time the lunch bell rings, I'm wound so tight I feel like I might shatter. I grab my bag and head toward the cafeteria, even though the thought of eating makes my stomach turn.

The cafeteria is chaotic, hundreds of students crammed into one space, the noise level somewhere between a rock concert and natural disaster. I scan the room, looking for an empty corner, somewhere I can disappear.

"Dakota!"

I turn to see a girl with dark curly hair and warm brown skin waving at me from a table near the windows. Amara Chen- no relation to Ms. Chen, she made sure to tell me this morning when we were assigned as lab partners in Chemistry. She'd been friendly, easy to talk to, the kind of person who fills silences without making them awkward.

I hesitate, then make my way over. Maybe a distraction is exactly what I need.

"Hey," I say, sliding into the seat across from her.

"Hey yourself." Amara takes a bite of her sandwich, studying me with sharp, intelligent eyes. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Or like you're about to commit murder. It's hard to tell which."

"Just a long morning."

"First day back is always brutal." She pushes a bag of chips toward me. "Want some? They're salt and vinegar. I'm obsessed."

"I'm good, thanks."

"Suit yourself." Amara crunches on a chip, still watching me. "So, you're from North Carolina, right? What brings you to our humble corner of nowhere?"

"My dad got a job here. Hospital administrator."

"Ah, yes. Rosewater Creek General, where dreams go to die." She grins. "My mom works there, actually. She's a nurse. Says your dad seems nice."

"He is."

There's a pause, and I can feel Amara trying to figure me out, trying to decide if I'm worth the effort of friendship or if I'm going to be one of those closed-off people who never lets anyone in.

I'm definitely the latter, but I appreciate that she's trying.

"So," she says, leaning forward conspiratorially. "I saw you talking to Ezekiel Weston after Lit. What's that about?"

My stomach drops. "We're partners for the Wuthering Heights project."

"Ooh, that's either really good or really bad." Amara's eyes gleam with interest. "Zeke's... complicated. Like, he's hot, obviously everyone with eyes knows that, but he's also kind of intense. And he doesn't really do the whole partner project thing. Usually just does all the work himself and puts both names on it."

"Sounds like him," I mutter before I can stop myself.

Amara's eyebrows shoot up. "Wait. Do you know him?"

Shit.

"We were kids together," I say carefully. "A long time ago."

"And?"

"And nothing. We're not friends."

"But you were?"

"No." The word comes out harder than I intend. "We were never friends."

Amara holds up her hands. "Okay, okay. Touchy subject. Got it."

I force myself to take a breath, to unclench my jaw. "Sorry. It's just... complicated."

"Most things worth talking about are." She takes another chip, chewing thoughtfully. "For what it's worth, Zeke's been different this year. Quieter. Less of the golden boy thing, you know? Like something changed over the summer."

I don't want to care about that. I don't want to wonder what changed, or why, or if it has anything to do with knowing I was coming back.

But I do wonder. I hate that I do.

"Anyway," Amara says, clearly sensing my discomfort and graciously changing the subject. "If you need a study buddy for Chem, I'm your girl. Patterson's tests are brutal, and I've heard Ms. Chen doesn't mess around either."

"Yeah. Thanks. I might take you up on that."

We talk about classes for the rest of lunch, safe topics that don't require me to think about Zeke or the alcove or the way my cheek still tingles where his lips brushed against it.

But the distraction only lasts so long.

****

By the time the final bell rings, I've made up my mind: I'm not going to the library.

It's a bad idea. Everything about this is a bad idea. Zeke is a bad idea, this project is a bad idea, and the way my body reacted to him in that alcove is the worst idea of all.

I'll email Ms. Chen tonight, ask to switch partners. I'll say we have a conflict, that we knew each other as kids and it didn't end well. She'll understand. She has to understand.

I'm halfway to the parking lot when I stop.

If I don't show up, he wins.

That's what this is, isn't it? He's trying to get under my skin, trying to make me react, trying to prove that he still has power over me after all these years.

And if I run away, if I let him scare me off, then he does.

I stand there in the middle of the hallway, students flowing around me like water around a stone, and I feel that old, familiar anger rising up in my chest.

I'm not that scared little girl anymore.

I'm not.

So I turn around and head toward the library.

****

The library is quiet, almost empty. A few students are scattered at tables, heads bent over textbooks and laptops. The smell of old books and industrial carpet cleaner fills the air.

I spot Zeke immediately.

He's sitting at a table in the back corner, away from everyone else, a copy of *Wuthering Heights* open in front of him. He's wearing a dark green henley that makes his eyes look more gold than brown, and his hair is slightly messy, like he's been running his hands through it.

He looks up as I approach, and something flickers across his face- relief, maybe, or surprise that I actually showed up.

"Hey," he says quietly.

"Hey."

I drop my bag on the table and sit down across from him, keeping as much distance between us as possible. The air feels thick, charged with everything we're not saying.

"I wasn't sure you'd come," Zeke says after a moment.

"I wasn't sure either."

"But you did."

"I'm not failing this project because of you." It comes out sharper than I intend, but I don't take it back.

Something that might be hurt flashes in his eyes, but he just nods. "Fair enough."

He slides a notebook toward me. "I made some notes on the first few chapters. Themes, character analysis, that kind of thing. Figured we could divide up the work, make this as painless as possible."

I look down at the notebook. His handwriting is surprisingly neat, organized. The notes are thorough, insightful even.

"You actually read it," I say, unable to keep the surprise out of my voice.

"I read a lot, actually." He leans back in his chair, watching me. "I know that probably doesn't fit with whatever image you have of me, but it's true."

"I don't have an image of you."

"Liar."

The word hangs between us, not quite an accusation, not quite a challenge.

"Fine," I say. "I think you're an asshole who made my childhood a living hell and now wants to pretend it never happened."

"I don't want to pretend it never happened." His voice is low, intense. "I want to explain. I want to-"

"I don't care what you want, Zeke."

"Yes, you do." He leans forward, elbows on the table. "If you didn't care, you wouldn't be here. You would've asked Ms. Chen to switch partners, or you would've just not shown up. But you're here."

I hate that he's right.

"I'm here because I need to pass this class," I say. "That's it."

"Okay." He doesn't believe me, I can tell, but he doesn't push. "Then let's work on the project."

We spend the next twenty minutes in tense silence, dividing up chapters, outlining our presentation. It's awkward and uncomfortable and I'm hyperaware of every movement he makes, every time he shifts in his seat or reaches for his pen.

At one point, we both reach for the same book- a critical analysis of *Wuthering Heights* -and our hands brush.

The contact is brief, barely a second, but it sends electricity shooting up my arm.

We both freeze.

"Sorry," Zeke says, pulling his hand back.

"It's fine."

But it's not fine. Nothing about this is fine.

I can feel him looking at me, can feel the weight of all the things he wants to say pressing down on the space between us.

"Dakota," he says finally. "Can I ask you something?"

"Depends on the question."

"Do you really think people can't change?"

I look up at him, meeting those hazel eyes that have haunted my nightmares for seven years.

"I think," I say slowly, "that people can change their behavior. But I don't think they change who they fundamentally are."

"So you think I'm still that kid. The one who-" He stops, jaw clenching. "The one who hurt you."

"Aren't you?"

"No." The word is fierce, almost desperate. "I'm not. I swear to God, Dakota, I'm not that person anymore."

"Then who are you?"

He's quiet for a long moment, and I watch emotions flicker across his face.. frustration, sadness, something that looks almost like shame.

"I'm someone who's been trying to figure out how to apologize to you for seven years," he says finally. "I'm someone who knows that sorry isn't enough, but it's all I have. I'm someone who-" He stops, running a hand through his hair. "I'm someone who f****d up really badly when I was a kid, and I've spent every day since then wishing I could take it back."

There's something raw in his voice, something vulnerable that makes my chest ache.

I want to believe him. God, some part of me desperately wants to believe him.

But I've spent seven years building walls, and I can't just tear them down because he looks at me with sad eyes and says the right words.

"Why?" I ask. "Why did you do it? Why me?"

Zeke looks away, and I can see him struggling with something, some truth he doesn't want to speak out loud.

"Because," he says finally, so quietly I almost don't hear him, "you were the only person who ever looked at me like I was just... me. Not Ezekiel Weston, football star's son. Not the kid everyone expected to be perfect. Just me. And I didn't know how to handle that. So I destroyed it."

The honesty in his words steals my breath.

"That's not an excuse," he adds quickly. "Nothing excuses what I did. But you asked why, and that's... that's why."

We sit in silence, the weight of his confession settling over us like snow.

I don't know what to say. I don't know what to feel.

All I know is that something has shifted, some small crack in the armor I've built around my heart.

And that terrifies me more than anything else.

"We should go," I say, standing up abruptly. "It's getting late."

Zeke nods, gathering his things. We walk toward the exit together, not quite side by side, but not quite separate either.

At the door, he stops.

"Dakota?"

I turn to look at him.

"Thank you," he says. "For coming. For listening. For... giving me a chance, even if you don't realize that's what you're doing."

I don't know how to respond to that, so I just nod.

As I walk to my car, I can feel him watching me again, can feel the weight of everything that's changed and everything that hasn't.

And I realize, with a sinking feeling in my stomach, that I'm not sure I hate him as much as I did this morning.

Which might be the most dangerous thing of all.